Monday, July 19, 2010

I do not get hit on that often. Granted, some part of that is (I hope) because I don't go out as often as I used to, but there it is. Actually, even when I *had* a social life, I still didn't get hit on that much.

Huh.

Anyway, it's not that I'm hideous or have questionable hygiene or that I twitch a lot or spit when I talk, but I think it's more closely related to my loud, obnoxious laugh (and I laugh all the time), my... :ahem: "colorful" sense of humor, acerbic sarcasm problem and tomboyish tendencies. Additionally, I have no shame and can be socially awkward. Once, a guy approached me in a grocery store and called me "foxy" and I somehow ended up singing Hendrix and wailing on my air guitar, which I thought was perfectly appropriate. He gave me kind of a weird look, though, and walked away. I was later informed that this was not the correct response to a guy calling you foxy, but dude. Foxy lay-daay. Dun dun dunn, dun dun dunnnnnn. If that's not the first thing you think of when someone says, "Well aren't *you* a foxy thang?" then obviously your brain is not working right. Maybe you should see someone about that.

I'm giving you this back story, friends, because I would like to express my shock at the fact that I have a stalker. *I know.*Remember a few months ago when I was at that horrible paparazzi event and I ended up hitting on the Hot Old Spice Guy? As I was leaving the event to go home and write my article, I was approached by a young man. When I say approached, I of course mean "chased down the street". I heard him running up behind me and thought he was going to try and mug me, because who *else* literally chases after women? Naturally, I clutched my purse and my notes close to me and mentally catalogued any available weapons on my person just in case.

*SLASH* You've been foiled by my ability to give you a paper cut with my notes!As it turns out, he did not, in fact, want my purse. He wanted my number. The exchange went something like this:

"Hey! Did you just come out of that restaurant over there?" says my potential mugger.

"No." I bent into a kind of crouch - ready to leap at him and paper cut him near the jugular.

"Oh. Well, what are you up to?"

"Going home. I'm on deadline. Bye." I was squinting at him suspiciously, still crouched with my dangerous paper weapon.

"Wait, can I have your number?"

"Uh, what? ::extreme confusion on my part:: Why? No. I'm in a hurry." I started walking away, but he followed me a bit, peppering me with questions that I was getting more and more frustrated answering ("Are you from here?" "No." "What deadline?" "Work." "Can I have your number?" "No." "Why?" "I don't know you." "Can I get to know you?" "No. I'm anti-social and weird." "Really?" "Yes."). When he asked again for my number, I realized that I had to give him some kind of information to get him to leave, because I definitely didn't want him following me all the way to my car because, while a car would be a much more formidable weapon for my defense, it's somewhat illegal to try to run over a guy who just wants your number. I tried to remember the fake number that I used to give out all the time gave out that one time, and recited it to the best of my ability, which turned out to not be a great kind of ability at all because the only thing I thought of was my actual number, which is what I ended up reciting.

*facepalm*

Is it true that alcohol abuse can have adverse effects on your memory? Yes. Yes, it is absolutely true.

The next day, Stalker Man texted me. I didn't respond. A few days after that, he called me and left a voicemail. I didn't answer, or return his call. The week after that, he texted again. I didn't respond again. He called. I didn't answer.

You get the idea, right? Good.

He did not get the idea.

After a solid month and a half of attempting to get a hold of me, failing, and attempting again on a weekly basis, I finally grew some huevos. I responded to him one evening when I was just getting into bed and he had called, left a voicemail, and texted all in the span of 5 minutes.

"Cool," he responded. "If your life ever clears up a bit, give me a call and I'll take you on a tropical adventure."

Yep. I couldn't make that shit up. A tropical adventure? Uh, wherein you would kidnap me, ship me to Singapore and sell me as a white sex slave? Excellent. Tropical adventure, indeed.

I figured, however, that was the end of my stalker. I didn't hear from him for a couple weeks, but then, one afternoon he called again and left a voicemail saying that he wanted to "hang out" and "catch up" and "tie me up in his basement". Okay, he didn't really say that last part, but it was there between the lines, you know? Great idea, let's catch up! Here's what we can catch up on: I don't like you and have tried to ignore you, be polite, be honest and wish you the best. You however, only hear what you want to hear, which apparently sounds like, "OHMYGOD! I'M SO GLAD YOU CALLED! PLEASE KEEP BOTHERING ME BECAUSE SURELY, YOUR PERSISTENCE WILL PAY OFF! P.S. I WANT YOU TO TAKE ME ON A TROPICAL ADVENTURE!"

So here we are, very clearly not on the same page. That will probably change soon, though, because I have every intention of hunting down your email address and sending you this blog entry to further clarify any misgivings you may have about me.

Monday, July 12, 2010

When it comes to this blog, I have only recently discovered how much of a thrill I get when I see comments or other people another person subscribing to me.

At first, I was as cool as a cucumber, believing that this was more of an online diary for *me* to post what I wanted, regardless of having other people read it. I didn't care. It was for me. I was like the Kristen Stewart of blogging.

And then, I started seeing people comment! I watched with anxious eyes and bated breath as my hits slowly climbed, forced, in part, by my constant facebook cry-for-attention pandering.

I have realized, as a writer, that I mostly do not write things for me. Call me crazy, but I like to write things that will be read. By other people. Actually, I would like a job doing something of that very nature.

This has brought me to two conclusions:

1. maybe if people readlike follow me, eventually, someone will want to pay me to write something, and

2. I need more followers and/or comments to be relevant enough for this to happen.

My God! you're thinking, doesn't she have any pride? Shame, perhaps?

My answer to you is: no. No, I do not.

My conclusions have also brought me to an even more disgraceful plan of action. Put simply, bribery.

For every person that follows or comments on this blog post, I will write a personalized haiku. Here is an example of my poetic skillz:

I do not want fame,

I just want a writing job

Because my job sucks.

Or perhaps something like this little gem:

I think that zombies

Should take human brain jerky

On all camping trips.

That's right, kids. One of these precious 17 syllable treasures could be your very own! All you have to do is show me some internet love. Ready, set, go!

Thursday, July 8, 2010

I have been known, on occasion, to put food above certain things in life.

When I was in college, I dated a guy for a short time who turned out to be vegan. This wasn't the only reason that our relationship didn't work, but it certainly played a factor. Shallow? Probably. But if your extended family is true-to-life Kansas cattle rancher folk and you're raised like me, eating steak on special occasions, mixing with an herbivore works sort of like a velociraptor dating a stegosaurus.

Dates proved difficult.

"Where do you want to go for dinner?" Stegosaurus would ask.

"Mexican?"

"Well, I can only eat rice and beans. And salsa," he would say, disappointed.

This would go on for an hour or so, while my velociraptor gut would grumble, until I'd crankily threaten to drive us to a steakhouse, tie him outside and let him eat grass while I sat at the window and slowly devoured a medium rare steak with a side of bacon.

Needless to say, we didn't last long.

On the flip side of that food and romance equation, the thing that truly cemented my crush on TOL in the early days was learning that he had gone to culinary school in New York and had worked as a cook. Be still, my cholesterol-choked heart.

I grew up in a house with family meal time, holidays spent with everyone crowded in the kitchen jostling each other out of the way to get to their pot of boiling water or the walnut torte that was about to burn in the oven. I love to cook as much as I love to eat, and as my father often jokes about our family, "If there's one thing we know how to do, it's eat."

It's no surprise, really, that food is so important to me. Cooking is how I express love the best. A good diet requires balance, just as a good life does. Keep it all in moderation, you know? And for the love of God, use some common sense. If it's a little bizarre to you that your crash-cleanse-shit-the-fat-out diet requires you to drink 8oz of salt water first thing in the morning, do you *really* think it's a good idea? Does it *really* make sense to go on an exhaustive 7 day green tea only "detox", but still smoke a pack a day? IT'S NOT HARD, PEOPLE.

Whatever, though, it's a personal choice. So you can keep your miracle pill, grapefruit and celery fast, and I'll be over here, enjoying the fuck out of my pork fried rice. Cooked with lard.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Oddly enough, Independence Day is one of the most memorable holidays for me. EM and I were born in Sacramento, where it is legal to buy and use fireworks because 1. NorCal is not made of specifically flammable plants, and 2. if things get out of hand, people have the good common sense to put the fire out with water, as opposed to attacking it with axes like they do here in SoCal.

"Stupid 'no-hose' budget cuts."

This is probably why I held on to my ex-boyfriend's gifted bottle rockets for as long as I did.

My ex gave them to me as part of either a Christmas or Birthday present a couple years ago because he shared in my moderately destructive leanings, and I figured that I would hold on to them for us to light together... you know, saved for something special. I stuck them in the safest place that I knew: my underwear drawer.

Fast forward a year to July of '09, when I was hopelessly smitten with TOL. For our 4th of July celebration last year, a group of us headed over to the coast to see the *big* explosions over the beach, and then on our way back to inland Los Angeles I remembered...

I have firepower in my skivvies drawer!

TOL and EM's boyfriend made with the matches and we lit said bottle rockets off in the street outside. It was a glorious and unsafe combination of alcohol, explosives and asshole-neighbor's-car-directionality. We made it out alive and unscathed. The rest of my bottle rockets were abandoned in favor of hour-long makeouts with TOL, who attracted my attention much more effectively than the smell of gunpowder.

This year, again, they were discovered nestled in the back of my underwear drawer, mysteriously wrapped in a pair of stockings.

"EM's boyfriend!" I called across the apartment. "Do you have any interest in possessing some slightly illegal fireworks that I've been stashing in my underwear drawer?"

"Uh. Yes?"

"Good. I don't know how old they are, really, and I'm afraid they'll suddenly and inexplicably go off and light my lingerie on fire. Also, I think one of them leaked. How do I get gunpowder out of stockings? Can I just wash them? Am I in danger of having them explode?"

"No," EM's boyfriend said, eyeing me with that look.

I handed them off and nursed my nostalgia for previous Independence Days, when, this very 4th of July weekend, I uncovered yet another bottle rocket while cleaning out my drawers of drawers. I thought about lighting it off, I thought about giving it to EM's boyfriend, I even thought about tossing it, but then my girly-emotion-centers stopped me. I suddenly remembered my childhood 4th of July block parties with root beer floats and Roman Candles and sparklers, I remembered a 4th of July at Mount Rushmore on an epic month-long camping trip with my parents, I remembered my adorable ex giving me the stash of flammable projectiles and I remembered TOL laughing at me when I lit them off in the street.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Read this first, otherwise you probably won't understand why there is a violent short story below. The Challenge! Part 2.Fine, I told her. Be a goddamn idiot. Be another statistic, you stupid woman.

Pathetic. Weak, I thought. It used to bother me a lot more. Felt sorry for her - for us. Now it just pisses me off.

The sharp staccato of Max's anger rang through the trailer like church bells in Hell. It was impossible not to hear.

Slap. Open hand on the table.

Whump. Fist on the wall.

Crack. Open hand on her face.

When I was little, that sound would catapult me out of my room like the superhero I thought I was... the human shield for my poor, defenseless mother. She never intervened when it was me. He's too strong! she'd tell me, cheap cut of beef on my purpling eye. You're just so much braver than me, darlin'. My little Knight in Tin Foil Armor!Crash. Plates? Something glass breaking.

I left that night. Be another statistic, you stupid woman. The night I told her that, I packed up my backpack and left. She could suffer through it all she wanted, swear it was the passion of love, tell me that forgiveness was the Christian way, but I wouldn't do it anymore. I don't believe in the Christian way, or in love. Not much proof of either to me.

She called me three days later. Please, honey, she pleaded. C'mon home now. Max says he wants you to come be a part of this family.

She said it with a thickness that meant a fat lip. I told her I had no family.

The day after that I got another call. Green Valley Hospital. I'll be 'round this evening. I have a meeting this afternoon that I *must* attend.Of course he would be here and not with her. He occasionally felt shame about it, and would leave for days at a time while we healed. Couldn't stand the sight of his rage manifested. Sleeping on the moth-eaten couch, surrounded by empty beer cars. Christ. Aren't *you* the very picture of white trash stereotype?It's hard to look at him and feel anything. I remember how I used to flit between cold sweat fear, and seething bottomless hatred, sometimes even pity, or hunger for his approval. The thought now doesn't even turn my stomach anymore. It's all just...peaceful. Calm.

I'm actually surprised at how well this is going. I took advantage of his inebriation and general lethargy, but bound his hands and feet quickly. Visiting hours are over at 8pm.

He grunted when I hit him the first time, and came to.

Jackson! What the fuck is going on? What the hell are you doing?! I shivered a little when he screamed at me and watched his angry veins bulge in his thick neck. I was going to relish this... the control. The retribution. The justice. The poetry.

"Do you remember," I began quietly, "when I told you that if you put her in the hospital again, I would kill you?"

His eyes grew wide, but his brow wrinkled with doubt. He scoffed at me. Said all kinds of things about how I was a fag and didn't have the cojones to do anything.

My blank face scared him, I think. He was sweating. It didn't dampen his fervor though, and he spit on the sweats I was wearing. I cut out his tongue.

He screamed and cried, so much like I had when he would come at me with the extension cord, or the belt, or the paring knife. He choked and coughed, dribbling saliva and blood down his chin. It dripped down the front of his shirt, flowing like warm honey, smelling faintly acidic. His screams fell to a moan. 4:45. Better hurry.I pulled the rope farther up the back of his arms and picked up mom's meat cleaver. No more chicken wings, no more pork chops, no more hitting.Again, Max screamed and thrashed. He tried to flail his bleeding, digit-less stumps. This time, there was no doubt in his brow. Just pain and fear. It was intoxicating.

"You know, Max...you probably have a very sad life story. I mean, something bad has to have happened to you for you to be such a bad person. Me? You were my 'something bad'. And here I am, cutting pieces off of you...with no feeling that I'm doing anything wrong. I'm just perpetuating the cycle, Max, do you see?"

He didn't see. He had passed out again. Sigh. I severed his jugular artery with the dirty meat cleaver still in hand. How curious it is... one body can contain so much liquid. One last shower in this awful place. One last change of clothes. I guess I'm lucky that trailers burn so well.

Parking at Green Valley Hospital is always madness, and so much waiting around. My mom's jaw is wired shut, but her eyes smile at me. She always liked to see me in a suit. I hand her a box of tin foil and Max's wedding ring. She looks frightened, and weakly reaches for the box.

No more Knight in Shining Tin Foil, I tell her. I kiss her forehead and walk away, refusing to look back.